Harry Potter 06 - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

her smile. Certainly her appearance was less colourful than usual without her customary shade of bubblegum-pink hair.
    ‘I’d better be off,’ she said quickly, standing up and pulling her cloak around her shoulders. ‘Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly.’
    ‘Please don’t leave on my account,’ said Dumbledore courteously. ‘I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour.’
    ‘No, no, I need to get going,’ said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. ‘’Night –’
    ‘Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and Mad-Eye are coming –?’
    ‘No, really, Molly … thanks anyway … goodnight, everyone.’
    Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the yard; a few paces beyond the doorstep, she turned on the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed that Mrs Weasley looked troubled.
    ‘Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Take care of yourself. Molly, your servant.’
    He made Mrs Weasley a bow and followed Tonks, vanishing at precisely the same spot. Mrs Weasley closed the door on the empty yard and then steered Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the lantern on the table to examine his appearance.
    ‘You’re like Ron,’ she sighed, looking him up and down. ‘Both of you look as though you’ve had Stretching Jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?’
    ‘Yeah, I am,’ said Harry, suddenly realising just how hungry he was.
    ‘Sit down, dear, I’ll knock something up.’
    As Harry sat down a furry ginger cat with a squashed face jumped on to his knees and settled there, purring.
    ‘So Hermione’s here?’ he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind the ear.
    ‘Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,’ said Mrs Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand: it bounced on to the stove with a loud clang and began to bubble at once. ‘Everyone’s in bed, of course, we didn’t expect you for hours. Here you are –’
    She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew towards Harry and tipped over; Mrs Weasley slid a bowl neatly beneath it just in time to catch the stream of thick, steaming onion soup.
    ‘Bread, dear?’
    ‘Thanks, Mrs Weasley.’
    She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of bread and a knife soared gracefully on to the table. As the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back on to the stove, Mrs Weasley sat down opposite him.
    ‘So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?’
    Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.
    ‘He taught Arthur and me,’ said Mrs Weasley. ‘He was at Hogwarts for ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?’
    His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a non-committal jerk of the head.
    ‘I know what you mean,’ said Mrs Weasley, nodding wisely. ‘Of course he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur’s never liked him much. The Ministry’s littered with Slughorn’s old favourites, he was always good at giving leg-ups, but he never had much time for Arthur – didn’t seem to think he was enough of a high-flier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn makes mistakes. I don’t know whether Ron’s told you in any of his letters – it’s only just happened – but Arthur’s been promoted!’
    It could not have been clearer that Mrs Weasley had been bursting to say this. Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could feel his throat blistering.
    ‘That’s great!’ he gasped.
    ‘You are sweet,’ beamed Mrs Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. ‘Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur’s heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It’s a big job, he’s got ten people reporting to him now!’
    ‘What exactly –?’
    ‘Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing – so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of Bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make your ears fall off … well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus Fletcher, who’ve